Work Text:
my thighs kiss skin and my hands exist for herhimthem;
skin is an apple drawing out the sweet interior of its core,
and it writes out what rests beneath them in fingernail pen strokes.
literature inscribed onto skin in running stanzas, a temporary memory of lovely lust stained onto gorgeous skin --
"stay" and "i'm okay" are begging, wordless poetry,
sweet nothings that wander off the cliff of my lip.
they ask for nothing just splice our legs until we can all
count each drumming heartbeat and pretend we are one being
one soul.
stars burst and die
comets blaze and fall
trapped within in the binaries of existing and living and dying and the conjunctions that connect each one:
imprisoned in minds and sung with each expansion of our nicotine-ruined lungs,